


Taur-e-Ndaedelos

by Mythopoeia



Series: With Shield and Body [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Awesome younger brother Kíli, Gen, Mirkwood, Protective older brother Fíli
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 18:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mythopoeia/pseuds/Mythopoeia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Fíli son of Dís escapes from some webs, slays some spiders, and frets over his younger brother. Mirkwood is a terrible, terrible place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spiders

**Author's Note:**

> AN: This story can be read as part of my "With Shield and Body" series or as a stand-alone, but characterizations are intended to be the same. The title comes from an old Sindarin name for Mirkwood which I thought appropriate; translated it means "The Forest of Great Fear." Some of Bilbo's dialogue is quoted from "The Hobbit," and I do not claim it as my own. This is a repost from my FF.net account.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to The Hobbit or anything Tolkien, though they own me.

Bilbo is still busy cutting the Company free from their bonds, his bright elf-sword skimming easily through the spider-silk, but somehow Fíli knew all along that it would be him, and not the hobbit, who found Kíli. He is afraid at first that he is too late, that his brother is dead (for that is the last memory he has of him, eyes closed and face corpse-pale, the white silk that bound him gleaming like enamel in the darkness as he was dragged away), but Kíli's eyelids flicker when Fíli rips the stuff from his face, and then he is awake, dazed but lucid enough to crawl up onto the branch beside his brother. He rolls onto his back and lies there a moment, coughing. His sword is still clutched in the stiff fingers of his right hand.

"Come, quickly," Fíli says, holding out his hands. "We have to get down out of the tree, we're going to make a run for it."

Kíli gasps weakly, his breathing thick and straining, and he grapples at his throat and stares up at Fíli with watering eyes. White silk still clings to his lashes. For a moment Fíli is not sure whether his brother can even see him through the stuff, or hear him for that matter, but then Kíli drags in a deep, clotted breath.

"F-Fíli? _Fíli—_ "

"That's right. Come on—"

Their descent is ungraceful in the extreme, but neither of them have any injuries worse than scraped hands and bruises by the time they reach the forest floor, so Fíli counts that a success. Reluctantly he leaves his brother there and ascends once more, this time to free a bundle that turns out to be Bofur; he repeats the process again for Oín, Dwalin, and Bífur, and then the spiders return.

Bilbo shouts for them to run, practically dropping from the branch he was clinging to in his haste to fend off the howling creatures. Fíli, already halfway down a tree himself, cuts his hands as he scrambles spider-like down the rough bark, not trusting his whirling head enough to jump. He still has his swords, though all his throwing blades are gone, but many of the others lost their weapons when they were taken and the Company of Thorin Oakenshield looks truly pitiful as he races to join it, half of the Dwarves scrabbling for stones and broken sticks to use as weapons from the litter at their feet.

"No time!" Bilbo pants, trying to chivvy them away towards the treeline. "Go on, quickly, I'll follow as I can!"  
Balin starts to protest at that, but Fíli sees how pale and unsteady his brother still looks and knows that Bilbo is right. This is a battle they cannot win. He looks at the little hobbit in his torn waistcoat and borrowed cloak, elf-sword bright and hungry in his hand, and for the barest instant their gazes lock.

"Go on," Bilbo cries. "Go on! I will do the stinging!"

And they do go, staggering, faint, and sick, either trusting the burglar or too ill and confused to argue. Fíli is in the rear of the little knot, one arm flung around his stumbling younger brother, one sword resheathed over his shoulder and his free hand still clutching the hilt of the other. As he drags at his brother's arm, half-carrying him as they follow Balin into the black closeness of the trees, he offers up a quick prayer of thanks that he inherited his mother's long nose and so was still able to get an adequate amount of air while he hung trussed and suspended in spider-silk. If he had been half-suffocated like some of their Company seems to have been, he doubts he and Kíli would be able to keep pace at all. Ahead of him he can hear Balin shout something about staying close together, and behind him there's a wailing, sputtering, howling sound that can only be Bilbo's work, giant spiders dying by the dozens at the hobbit's hand. The clamor is growing louder.

"Kíli," he croaks, his hand fisted in his brother's sleeve. He cannot catch enough breath in his cotton-dry throat to say anything more, but Kíli raises his sword hand slightly in anticipation, his knuckles white with the strain. He understands: the pursuit is drawing closer despite Bilbo's efforts. They will have to fight.

His brother can barely stand, and he will have to fight.

Someone up ahead screams, and then there is the shining of eyes in the gloom above them as spiders drop from the trees, croaking and hissing with fury, their hideous voices gabbling about hunger and hate and blood and skin. Fíli puts his back to his brother's on instinct and when one of the creatures rushes him he is ready for it; with a hoarse yell he swings his blades down with all his strength, neatly bisecting the head. The spider's legs thrash horribly and then go still, dead.

He barely has time to rejoice in his victory before another spider takes its place, this one larger than the first. This one too, he kills, and then another, but they keep coming. Twice he nearly catches his foot upon his brother's boot heel and stumbles, cursing himself for his clumsiness. One spider nearly pounces upon him the second time he trips, fangs raised and dripping, but he is saved by sheer fluke: Ori is flinging stones and screaming in shrill terror, and one strikes Fíli's opponent in the eye so hard the gleaming orb bursts, spattering him with dark blood as the creature wails. Regaining his footing, he drives in close to the spider's head and kills it in one blow, then staggers back, gasping harshly and swiping at his own eyes with his sleeve.  
Too late he realizes that the charge separated him from his brother.

Too late he realizes he has left vulnerable not only himself, but Kíli as well.

He whirls about to see Kíli take a step back, sword raised, as a giant spider skitters towards him, punching out with its clawed forelegs, but Kíli is of the blood of Durin and he ducks aside, shearing off the nearest clawed foot with a single blow. The creature howls and rears up, curling impossibly and stabbing forward with its long, venomous stinger, striking at his brother's throat, and Fíli _screams_ —

But then Kíli dodges again, swings his sword up in both hands with a shout of his own, and drives it down into the spider's suddenly exposed belly, burying it to the hilt. The spider shrieks and bubbles, gouts of slime spurting and steaming from the wound, but it is a killing stroke. Fíli sees his brother leaning forward, pressing all his weight into his blade, his hair falling forward over his face.

"Fíli!"

Balin's sharp shout brings him once again back into himself, and alive to his own peril he wheels about wildly, bracing himself for his next foe. But then a white-blue flame shears through the mirk, nearly blinding him, and the spiders chitter and stare, and it's _Bilbo_. The little hobbit appears out of nowhere, seemingly unscathed and with his elf-sword blazing in his hand, and he kills two of the monsters before the rest have realized what is happening.

" _Attercop!_ " Bilbo shouts, and then he is away again, dancing through the trees, and the spiders scuttle after him spitting with rage and hunger, clambering over their dead, away from Fíli. He knows this is his chance, even as knows that it cannot be long before more of the creatures arrive, ravenous and clear-minded and deadly, even as his heart is swollen and choking in his throat with his fear for the hobbit's life. He looks wildly around the suddenly desolate tangle of trees and then stumbles to his brother's side. The others of the Company are already fading into the darkness ahead, even poor Bombur who is being dragged along by his brother and cousin together, but Kíli is still half-kneeling with his sword buried in the spider's seeping belly, and he's swaying, and Fíli yells but he won't. Get. Up.

"There's more coming, we have to _run_ ," Fíli says, sweat running down his face. The air smells of rot and poison and is as heavy and stifling as a blanket.

"I—c-can't—" his brother gasps, and he looks sick now, truly _sick_ , his face a curdled greyish-green that looks almost luminous in the suffocating dark.

From somewhere behind them in the darkness comes the sound of scuttling claws.

" _Kíli son of Dís_ ," he screams, desperate with fear but not moving away, standing over his brother with both swords raised high, " _get to your feet_."

And, Mahal be praised, his brother obeys, struggling up and still clutching his own sword, though his knuckles are white as milk and his face is the color of raw soapstone. The blade slides from the monster's body with a horrible sucking noise, and venomous green slime bubbles from the wound, slides from the metal to spatter, hissing, on the ground.

"Run," Fíli gasps, " _Run_ —" and they do, together, each supporting the other, stumbling and sliding over the uneven ground, which is slippery with rot and wet leaves. There is a weird and terrible noise behind them of carapaces sliding over tree roots, insectile clicking and hissing, hateful voices. For a horrid, delirious moment, Fíli is certain that he hears faintly the sound of singing.

And Kíli is trying, but Fíli can feel him fading against his side, and the sound of his breathing is painful even to listen to. Fíli is prouder of him than he has ever been in all his life but he is also afraid because he knows that soon his brother's strength will give out entirely, and he knows too that he is not strong enough to carry him when it does. He tries to gasp out encouragements as they run, _almost there, Kíli_ , and _just a little longer, Kíli_ , and _I'm so proud of you, Kíli, Thorin's so very proud_ , but very soon he doesn't have the air, so he just holds on to his brother and runs and waits for the poisonous sting from behind that will mean their end. The spider-stench grows about them until he can taste it on his tongue, until it burns his eyes like sweat as he staggers forward, and he can hear the sounds of their claws on the ground, heavy and swift. In the end he cannot help it, he goes to look behind, and as he turns he gets a confused impression of his brother's face, teeth bared and eyes wild and hair sticking to his skin as though it was painted there, and the spiders are howling so close, right _on top of them_ , and oh Mahal this is how they are going to die, this is how they are going to die—

And then—

Silence.

Like the shuttering of a lamp.

The baleful eyes and hateful hissing are both gone, retreated back into the dark trees; Fíli looks around and realizes that he is standing just within the edge of a clearing of some kind, the rest of the Company huddled close, like he is, confused and relieved. And suddenly there is Bilbo, too, his elf-sword bright and hungry in his hands, and his arms are coated up to the elbows in black blood and slime.

"We're all here, then?" The hobbit asks slightly shakily. No one replies, too dazed by their unexpected reprieve.

And then Kíli drops his sword and collapses to his knees on the loamy earth, curling forward with a horrid, guttural choking sound that strikes Fíli blind with panic before he realizes that his brother is not wounded or dying but instead is just succumbing to nausea at last. His whole body convulses with retching, but all that comes up is a thin string of bile that drools down to tangle in the mess of spider-silk still clinging to his skin and hair. Fíli rubs his back and swallows hard and tries not to be ill himself.

"Is the lad all right?" someone asks, and Fíli says something he knows not what but in reply, but it seems to satisfy them for after that he is left alone with his brother.

"Almost finished there, Kíli?" he ventures with forced cheeriness when the spasms seem to be subsiding at last. His brother's only response is a low moan. When he ventures a look he sees that Kíli's hands are fisted in the thick, sweet rot of the forest floor, and his face is rigid with pain. He is shaking so badly Fíli is not certain at first if the retching has stopped, but then he struggles to straighten up and Fíli carefully helps him sit, steadying him with his own slightly trembling hands. He glances at the ground but there is no vomit. His little brother has not eaten in days, nor drunk anything in nearly that long. There is nothing left now for his stomach to throw up.

Kíli gasps raggedly against his shoulder for a moment and then straightens slowly, opening his watering eyes. He squints at Fíli, who has just enough time to worry that his little brother does not recognize him before Kíli offers him a small, pallid smile.

"Ow," he rasps.

"Kíli? Kíli, you all right?"

"My head," his brother manages faintly, and Fíli winces in sympathy. It's become clear by now that he is feeling the least poorly of all their Company, but even so there is a low, throbbing ache pounding in his temples from the spider-poison. His brother's headache must be much worse, and to then be struck heaving with nausea . . .

"It's all right now, we're safe," he says, helping Kíli over to a stump near the center of the clearing. "The spiders have gone. We've left their territory, they won't be following us any more." Kíli sinks down gratefully to the ground beside the stump, leaning his back against the bark, still clinging to Fíli's arm. Fíli sits beside him, one sword laid upon the the leaves at his side, and the other drawn across his knees. It is only then that he recognizes this place: Co-mingled with the dark, heavy, rotting, mildewy smell Fíli has come to associate with this accursed forest is something else: a spicy, clean scent—like green pine needles, or warm woodsmoke. Elves. Fíli shakes his head. Somehow, running blind from pursuit, they found their way back to one of the Woodelves' circles. He wonders if this is one of those they saw before, blazing with fire and laughter and song. Perhaps they left something here which his brother can eat.

At least it explains why the spiders gave up their pursuit.

"It looks like the spiders don't much care for Elf-magic," he muses softly, and Kíli stirs.

"Very like . . . Thorin," he mumbles. Fíli glances down at the pallid, too-thin face against his shoulder, and chuckles despite himself. His brother can still joke. He is going to be all right.

"They were hairy, too," he teases back. Kíli makes a breathy, tentative sound like the shadow of a laugh, and then goes quiet again. All around them the rest of the Company is sprawled: Bombur huddled and miserable, Ori curled up asleep like a mouse between his two brothers, Dwalin attempting to pace back and forth and scowling, weaving like a drunkard. Bilbo and Balin are standing close together, examining something in the hobbit's hands and whispering.

"You should sleep," Fíli says, absently trying to work the worst of the webs out of his brother's hair. "You'll feel better when you wake up."

"I don't want to."

"What?"

"The . . . The spiders. They—got me, and when I woke up, it was dark. I can't . . . Dark. Didn't know . . . you were."

"I was there too," Fíli says. "Don't talk about it, Kíli. Sleep."

Kíli looks at him and his brow furrows, even as he squints against the headache that has seemingly only worsened. His eyes are slightly glassy, as though with fever.

"You're safe?"

"Of course I am," Fíli replies, as lightly as he can. His brother's confusion and incoherency is worrying, and he hopes desperately that sleep will be enough to set him right. Kíli's agitation does not ease at the assurance; he hides his face in his hands and presses the heels of his palms hard against his eyes, trembling, gritting his teeth. His breathing hitches in increasingly uneven, wrenching gasps, as though he is trying very hard not to cry.

"I thought I was going to die," Kíli strangles out suddenly. "I couldn't breathe, and I c-couldn't remember where you were, and it was all in my—my ears, and my mouth, silk all down my throat, and I couldn't even open my eyes, I couldn't _move_ —"

"Kíli—"

"I thought, I thought you were dead—"

"Kíli, _don't_."

Not knowing what else to do, he draws his brother into his arms and holds him close. Kíli is taut as a bowstring, but soon he relaxes against him and sobs, weakened by exhaustion, and hunger, and the spider-poison still confusing his thoughts. Fíli sees for the first time the angry, puckered welt upon his throat, where he was stung, and wants to kill something.

"Shh," he murmurs as soothingly as his anger will allow, leaning back against the stump. "Shh, shh. Don't think about it, Kíli, it's all right. I'm here. I'm here."

It is only after Kíli falls asleep that he hears the others whispering frantically and realizes Thorin is missing.


	2. Chapter 2

Fíli startles awake without realizing he had closed his eyes, fingers leaping for his sword hilt even as he tries not to disturb his brother who slumbers heavily on his shoulder. There’s a short yelp, and then a high, hoarse voice hissing “Fíli, Fíli, it’s just me!” and he freezes.   
“Oh,” he says. “Bilbo.” 

The hobbit moves tentatively closer, his bare feet silent on the forest floor as he crouches down in front of Fíli. He is ragged and filthy and still holds his elf-blade clutched in his hand, though it is cleaned now of gore and venom. He nods anxiously towards Kíli.

“How is he?”

“Ill,” Fíli replies shortly, “but alive.” He readjusts his grip slightly, wincing as the blood slowly returns to his pinned right arm, and Kíli’s head drops slightly down his shoulder. His brother’s sleeping breaths are a shallow warmth tickling across his collarbone, and he lowers his own head slightly to rest his cheek wearily on Kíli’s matted hair.

“I’ve checked on Bombur,” Bilbo offers, “and he’s still poorly as well, though a little improved, I think. Kíli should be well again too by the time we’re ready to move on.”

The hobbit sounds relieved— _pleased_ , almost—and before he realizes what he is doing Fíli is snapping back at him.

“He’s not going to be _well_. He won’t be well again until I can get some food in him, and he needs water. We all do.” 

Bilbo looks taken aback at the outburst, and then hurt.

“Look,” the hobbit begins, slightly heatedly. “I’m doing my best, but I’m not Gandalf. I can’t magically solve all your problems, and I don’t know what we are going to do about food, but I did just save you lot from _being_ eaten, which ought to count for something. I want out of this miserable forest just as much as you do, _and_ , I might add, it was not I who decided to go running off the path and landing us in this mess to begin with, and furthermore—”

“I’m sorry,” Fíli interrupts wretchedly. For a moment they just stare at each other in the dark, but then Bilbo takes a breath, and pulls his hand out from where it had been agitatedly fiddling in his vest pocket. Kíli does not stir.

“I’m sorry, Bilbo. I don’t mean to complain, not after all you’ve done. It’s not your fault. I only —I wish that Thorin was here. I don’t know what to do.”

He realizes that there are tears in his eyes now, as there had been in Kíli’s earlier, and he raises the hand that isn’t pinned by his sleeping brother to dash them away. He is too exhausted even to feel guilty for not noticing Thorin’s absence until the others pointed it out (though he does not want to even contemplate what that absence might mean for his uncle’s fate), but he still feels how the weight of leadership has thereby passed to him, and they are still lost, and his brother is starving and ill, and perhaps it is the poison weakening his inhibitions as it weakened Kíli’s but he is so _frightened._

Bilbo watches him, all affront gone from his expression. He looks almost sad, and Fíli remembers what he first thought of Mr. Baggins when they met in the hobbit’s hole all those weeks ago: a funny little fellow, nervous and gentle and somewhat stupid. He does not look at all like that hobbit any more. There is still something about him of that fierce and stinging warrior, who slew spiders in the dark and saved his friends, determined and protective and firm.

“I’ll tell you what you’re going to do,” Bilbo says kindly, wagging a finger to accentuate his points. “You’re going to do like young Kíli here and get some sleep, get the venom out of your system. Once we’re all rested we can take a vote and decide what direction is best to try—and then try it. It’s the best we can do. At least we know not to go back _that_ way,” he adds, pointing back to the deeper blackness where the spiders lurk, robbed of their prey. Fíli shudders despite himself. 

“What about you?” He asks softly. The hobbit blinks.

“I was thinking of keeping watch . . . But I suppose it will be best if I sleep too. This is an Elvish place, so no evil thing should trouble us. But promise me you won’t stay awake fretting?”

“I promise,” Fíli replies, and Bilbo pats him fondly on the shoulder.

“We’ll sort things out together, Fíli,” he says. “All of us. It’s not your job.” 

The hobbit straightens up with a wince and pads silently away, and Fíli watches him go, unable to speak around the sudden tightness in his throat. He still cannot quite get used to this hobbit, who is only a child in years according to Dwarven lifespans, treating _him_ like a lad. But strange though it is, he is comforted, and sleep, when it reclaims him, is gentle and dreamless and deep.

 

When Fíli wakes next he is chagrinned to discover that not only did he slump entirely to one side sometime as he slept, so that he is now sprawled in a highly undignified manner on the mouldy forest floor, but that the others are all already awake and chose to leave him there. Even Kíli is up and walking about, a trifle unsteady but very nearly his normal self again—or at least what has passed as normal for his little brother ever since they lost the path and the last of Beorn’s supplies ran out.

Of course it is Kíli who first notices that he is awake, and he greets Fíli with a grin and a shout.

“It’s about time you were up! We were about to give you up as dead.”

( _I thought you were dead—_ )

“Not dead,” Fíli grouses, forcing down the memory of his brother’s panic the night before and grimacing as he forces himself up. “In fact, very much alive. How is your head feeling?”

“Better, I think,” Kíli replies, walking over to offer him a hand. “It hardly hurts at all, anyway. I think it was worse before. I . . . Things are a bit muddled. Oín says that’s all right, though.”

“Well, good.” And it is good. He surreptitiously examines his brother closely as Kíli helps him to his feet, and he is pleased by what he sees. His face is still a little drawn and paler than is healthy, but he is at least outwardly merry again and he seems to have managed to pull most of the webs from his hair, unlike Fíli, who is already fearing that he is going to have to trim his beard to eradicate them all.

Of course he still looks hungry, his jaw and exposed collarbone sharp beneath his skin, and his lips are cracked with thirst. But there is nothing Fíli can do about that. Nothing at all.

So they go to join the others, and soon all thirteen of them are clustered in a little knot at the center of the Elf circle. The previous night Fíli had noticed how the   
air smelled cleaner here, but now that day has come he can see that the light is better too, what little of it that manages to filter through the canopy, anyway. The air is still and close but it is also a little greener, so that he feels almost as if he stands on a riverbed somewhere deep, deep underwater, down where the current does not reach. 

They talk a little amongst themselves, arguing about what to do next, and where to go, but all decision-making ultimately lies upon Bilbo. Even Dwalin asks what it is that Master Baggins plans to do next, and Bofur does not even try to offer his own opinion on matters, just settles down with his hat for a pillow and declares whatever Bilbo says they are to do is fine by him before dropping off soundly back to sleep. Mr. Baggins himself looks flustered at all the attention, but Fíli can see how broadly Kíli is smiling and has to smile a little himself, shaking his head. Kíli has liked the hobbit ever since they first met, and obviously is pleased on Bilbo’s behalf that the rest are behaving so deferentially towards him. 

(Kíli whispers something about a magical ring to Fíli while the others bicker, a golden ring that Bilbo had shown them all while Fíli was still asleep and which the hobbit has been using to turn himself invisible. Fíli does not know what to make of that, nor does he really care, at this point. He does not care much _how_ the hobbit saved all their lives last night, only that he _did_.)

Eventually Bilbo convinces everyone to take a vote on what direction to go in, and after a confused count of hands in the dim green light it is agreed that they will continue on in the direction as near opposite to the spiders’ webs as they can. There is nothing to pack, all their belongings lost somewhere in the trees behind them, and so they just tighten their belts and straggle into line, huddling close for fear of losing each other again and peering anxiously into the darkness beyond the clearing. Fíli is not looking forward to leaving this little haven of safety at all, and he knows the others feel the same, but a search of the clearing revealed that the blasted Elves of course left nothing of their feasting behind. The Company has gone too long without food, and too long without water. They have to keep moving, or—well.

They have to keep moving.

Kíli stands close beside Fíli as they watch Balin work at convincing a reluctant Bilbo to take the lead. He prods gingerly at the swollen sting-mark on his throat and winces. 

“Does it look bad?” He asks. Fíli shrugs dismissively.

“Nothing a proper beard wouldn’t hide.”

That earns him an impressive glare, but he just laughs and elbows his brother teasingly. Which then makes him feel guilty, because to his horror Kíli almost falls over.

“Mahal, Kíli, I’m sorry—”

“It’s nothing,” Kíli insists hurriedly, spreading out both hands placatingly as he regains his balance. “I’m fine, really. Just a little dizzy.”

And Fíli does not know what he wants to say to that, but then the others start moving, filing into the gloom beyond the clearing one by one, so he just keeps his mouth shut and follows, Kíli close upon his heels.

 

At first there had been some question of whether or not to let the hobbit lead with his elf-sword drawn, in hopes that the light it sometimes gave off would help guide them. Ultimately, however, the danger of what hideous things that light might draw was deemed too great, and so instead they walk in absolute darkness, clinging to each other so as not to lose their way. Kíli’s hand drags at Fíli’s cloak, and Fíli is holding on to Nori’s belt, the stamped leather cold beneath his fingers.

No one speaks, except in sporadic, hesitant whispers. Fíli hears Glóin grumble something ahead of him, and Ori’s thin quavering as he asks Dori something that is quickly hushed. But he catches the name _Thorin_ in the query and he feels suddenly sick.

He is (was? _was?_ ) the heir, and his duty is not to his family only, but to his King. How will his mother react, if she ever knows? If she ever comes to hear that when in peril he gave no thought to his uncle, whom he swore to follow and defend with his life, and whom he lost in this terrible place? The weight of that loss, fully realized for the first time, crashes down upon him so abruptly and devastatingly that for a moment he cannot breathe.

He did not think he made a sound, but Kíli’s hand moves from his cloak to his shoulder, resting there reassuringly. 

“It is not your fault,” Kíli says firmly, his voice hoarse and thin in the dark. Fíli swallows hard, and shakes his head.

“You don’t know that,” he whispers. “I forgot him, Kíli. I . . . I didn’t even think . . .”

“Gandalf won’t let anything happen to him. Remember, with the trolls? He came in time then, and when the goblins had us too. He’ll make sure Thorin is safe.”

_Like he made sure you were safe, when the spiders came?_ Fíli wants to retort savagely, _Or me? Or any of us?_

But all he says is: “Maybe he will.”

Kíli says nothing more after that and so Fíli just hunches his shoulders forward and keeps walking, and walking, and walking, tripping over roots and debris and feeling his own fatigue settling in his bones like silt. His brother’s breathing grows worse. Sometime during the course of their silent struggle forward Fíli slows enough to allow Kíli to walk beside him, and sometime after that Kíli drops his hand from Fíli’s shoulder to grip at his coatsleeve. They see no more spiders, or indeed any other living creatures, not even the sour black squirrels Fíli knows lurk somewhere in the canopy above. They see nothing at all.

No light.

No path.

(No wizard.)

Nothing.

 

They go on for perhaps another half-hour before Kíli releases Fíli’s sleeve with a half-bitten gasp. The sound of his breathing is rough and painful, is as dry as salt. 

“Kíli?”

Without thinking Fíli turns, abandoning his hold on Nori’s belt as he tries to make out his brother’s face, but the gloom beneath the trees here is daunting even for Dwarven sight accustomed to the deeps of the mountains, and he cannot tell if the tension in his brother’s voice is from pain, or exhaustion, or something else. Kíli is buckled over slightly, swaying, but when Fíli tries to reach for him he straightens up and keeps walking, slowly and deliberately.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, swatting Fíli’s hand away irritably. 

Fíli knows he is not. They survived the spiders, but he is still watching his brother dying before his eyes, and when Kíli staggers again Fíli is ready to catch him by the elbow, holding him up. 

“I’m _fine_ ,” Kíli insists again, and he tries to laugh, but it sounds like a dry sob of frustration, and when he stubbornly takes a few more steps he drags heavier upon Fíli’s arm with each one. Fíli knows that this is it, this is what he has been waiting for, and dreading, all this time. His brother cannot go any further.

“Don’t stop,” Kíli gasps, as though reading his mind. “I’m all right.”

“You’re not,” Fíli starts to say, but to his horror he realizes that he sounds like he is sobbing too and so he snaps his mouth shut and just pulls at his brother’s arm until it is drawn over his shoulders. He knows he does not have the strength, now, to carry them both any more than a handful of steps. But when they fall, he wants to be sure that they fall together. 

He takes one step.

And another.

He sways, and waits to steady himself before taking another.

“Fíli,” his brother says faintly into his ear, but then his legs buckle entirely, and his eyes roll back, and Fíli’s mind goes blank with terror. He screams for Balin, Dwalin, for _Bilbo_ , Mahal help him, and they all come stumbling back out of the darkness, eyes wide and gleaming in the murk. 

He is on his knees, cradling his brother’s unresponsive body, and his hands are shaking so badly he cannot even feel for Kíli’s pulse.

“Help me,” he babbles, “Help me lift him, he can’t walk any more on his own, Dwalin, I can’t leave him, I can’t leave him, please Bilbo, please Balin, please—”  
They just stare at him.

“ _Help me lift him up,_ ” he screams, despair choking him nearly to incoherency. “ _You carried_ Bombur _for_ days, _by Aulë!_ ”

Their faces are white and helpless, but before any of them can reply there are torches flaring out red and sudden around them, and there is a sudden clamor of Elven voices and Elven steel. A pitiful few of the Company cry out in shock or dismay, but most just stand there blinking dumbly, shying away from the light. When Dwalin is seized by Elven hands he still manages to fight them, swearing in guttural Sindarin to be certain his captors understand exactly what he thinks of them; Glóin knocks one Elf down before three others overpower and gag him, and even little Ori wriggles unhappily as his hands are bound. 

But Fíli kneels motionless over the body of his brother, the red light blazing upon his hair, and then he stands, slowly, as though every movement causes him pain. He knows that even if his uncle is not yet dead Thorin will never forgive him this—but when the Elves approach him he throws down his swords with something like gratitude, and he stands unresisting while Thranduil’s soldiers snap the manacles firmly around his wrists and wrap his arms with cord. Because they also set a leathern flask to Kíli’s lips and help him drink, and when they bind his brother’s hands they are not ungentle, and when they pull his brother to his feet he can see that there is color in Kíli’s face again and he does not fall. As they check his bonds Kíli revives enough to fight, weakly, struggling to wrench his arms free and calling Fíli’s name with a confusion and a panic that makes his heart break. 

But he knows that the Elves will want their prisoners alive for questioning. 

He knows that they will not let Kíli die.

And so Fíli stands in silent anguish, watches the Elves drag his brother away, and knows that everything is going to be all right.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few lines of dialogue are taken directly from the book "The Hobbit," and thus are in no way mine. All hail Professor Tolkien.

Fíli does not fight when the Elves blindfold him; he does not so much as flinch away, just stares straight ahead and clenches his teeth. The cloth is soft and it is not bound tightly enough to be painful, but the humiliation alone is enough to set his heart burning hot against his bones. He can hear some of his companions protesting as their eyes too are covered, Dwalin sputtering curses and, surprisingly, Balin's indignant voice loudest of all. The Elves do not speak. He cannot hear even their breathing over the sound of his own breaths grating in his ears.

He cannot hear his brother any more, either. He swallows in the darkness and tries not to panic, but he can feel that his hands are shaking even if he cannot see them.

Without a warning there comes an abrupt tug at the rope around his wrists and he staggers forward, one step and then another and then he is moving at a quick march, and he can feel the heat of the red-burning torches the Elves hold aloft even if he can no longer see them. He walks a long time, tripping and ungainly and blind, and he is exhausted but he knows if he falls he will be dragged, so he manages to keep his footing somehow. The bindings at his wrists are tied in turn to a length of rope that links all the Dwarves together like fish strung on a line. He can hear the others lumbering ahead of him and hopes desperately that they too have contrived to stay afoot.

He only knows they have arrived at the Elvenking's hold at last because the air changes. It is no longer close and dank, and he can feel a breeze as faint as a breath touch his face. The sensation is so delicious after the many days of stifling darkness he can feel tears spring to his eyes behind the blindfold. The air smells differently too: sweeter, like cedar and dark pine and damp stone. The last of these scents is easy enough to explain; the sound of flowing water grows louder as he follows his captors' lead, until it is thundering almost beneath his feet. Cold spray mists his skin and he flinches, remembering how Bombur had been enspelled by the dark water he fell into, but nothing happens. This water must be of a different kind, then, or at least protected by some kind of Elf magic. Suddenly remembering his thirst he sticks out his tongue to lick at any droplets that have caught in the hair on his face.

His feet clomp hollowly over what can only be a bridge, the water roaring darkly below with enough force to make the wooden beams tremble. And then there are suddenly echoes all around, and the air is still again, and Fíli knows he is surrounded by walls of stone, very thick and very old. He recognizes the sonorous voices of lime and quartz, and tries to listen, but the walls' speech is strange to him, whetted with an Elvish taint, and what little words he can make out are unfriendly. _Naugrim_ , the stone voices mutter as he passes, deep and sneering. Behind him, he hears the rumbling boom of a mighty gate sealing shut, and all sounds of water and wind are snuffed out like a candleflame, like an axe falling. He stumbles, and an Elvish hand is instantly on his elbow to help steady him, but he wrenches away and it is withdrawn.

After a long descent—deep, deep underground they go, along winding stairs and sloping corridors, and Fíli had never thought that Elves could live so deep beneath the earth—the company emerges into a wide-open place, murmurous with the sounds of hushed voices. They are tugged forwards and the murmuring grows ever louder and more scandalized, until at last they are brought to a halt, and Fíli can feel hands working at his bonds, untying the rope that connected him to his kin so that he stands completely alone, isolated in the darkness behind his eyes, his wrists still bound and aching.

The cloth over his eyes is drawn away, and he squints against a sudden blaze of yellow light. He is standing in a great hall, high-ceilinged and fair, pillared with polished stone that has been carved to look like slender trees, their slim branches arching together to form a leafy canopy of marble and quartz and glittering emerald. Lamps hang from their boughs and burn in sconces set around the walls, their clear flames steady and nearly smokeless, burning almost clear. They smell of green pine needles. Strewn around the pillars like fallen leaves stand members of the court in their fine velvets and jewels, all glowing with autumn colors of rich copper and saffron and red gold. The Elves watch Fíli as though he is some kind of fascinatingly rare but also repulsive animal, meeting his gaze with cold, unabashed interest.

At the head of the hall, directly in front of him, is a tall wooden throne, richly carved and polished to a slick shine. Sitting upon the throne is the Elvenking of Mirkwood.

The king is tall even seated, and his hair is long and yellow. Upon his brow sits a crown of berries and red leaves, and in one hand he holds a great oaken staff. Rings glitter upon his fingers like water on stone.

For a long while he does not speak, and the gossiping muttering around the hall slowly dies away. In the growing silence the king leans slightly forward in his seat to examine the Dwarves' faces one by one, his own expression impassive. Fíli stands stiffly under the scrutiny and does not dare look at his brother to see how Kíli is faring, keeping his eyes fixed instead on the oil-bright sheen of the polished stone at the Elvenking's feet. At last the king sits back again, graceful and slow, and when he speaks it is with a voice as clear as cut crystal, resonant with power.

"Unbind our guests," he says, with a flicker of grim jest in his silver eyes. "They need no ropes here; there is no escape from my magic doors for those who are once brought inside."

Fíli struggles not to let the dread that he knows those words were meant to instill sink into his heart as the Elf nearest him promptly stoops to release his wrists and the bindings on his arms. Once his hands are free the Elf steps back, the manacles dangling from his fingers, and Fíli clenches and unclenches his own fingers as feeling slowly bleeds back into them.

The fingers of the Elvenking's free hand curl over the arm of his throne, and he speaks again.

"Who is the leader here?"

There is a shuffling moment of silence. Fíli knows the others are trying not to look at him, and the thought shakes him with pride and grief both, and a strange, thrilling, sunken sort of fear. Sometimes, when he was a child, he had wanted to be King, and always has he been proud of being Thorin's heir. But never in his life has he wanted to be a leader.

"I am," he says, stepping forward with his head held high. The Elvenking's silver eyes snap to his, and Fíli realizes that they are not truly silver at all, but a pale blue—like the water-pale blue gems that his mother so loves, set in silver backing. Thranduil looks Fíli up and down slowly, taking the time to rove that piercing gaze over his tattered boots, and garments stiff with spider-gore, and the spider-silk still snarled in his beard. Fíli feels his face grow warm under the scrutiny, but he does not move.

"I am not well-versed in the ways of Dwarves," the Elvenking says at last, a wry little smile playing around his thin lips, "but you seem very young to presume to speak upon behalf of all these greybeards. What is your name, child?"

"You will not have heard it before, so it would mean nothing to you," Fíli replies.

"That one there," one of the Elven soldiers speaks up, and Fíli has to tamp down his fury when he sees the Elf pointing towards Kíli, who (and this is the first time he has seen him in full light in so long, light clear enough to show the shadows where his face has gone hollow, to show how filthy he is, and how worn) is pale and unsteady in the grip of another of the Elvenking's men, though still managing to keep his feet. His jaw is set and he is trying so hard not to show it, but Fíli can see that he is badly scared.

The Elf says: "He called him Fíli."

"Fíli," the Elvenking repeats with thoughtful amusement, and Fíli has to gather all his will not to flinch away from hearing his name sounded by that hateful voice. _It is only sound,_ he thinks, desperately. _It is nothing but noise. It means nothing._

"It is not a name of old Erebor, that much is plain," the Elvenking muses, leaning forward a little again on his high throne to examine Fíli's face. "And you are young; too young to have come from the Mountain. What then, Master Fíli, is your business in these parts, I wonder?"

"It is not with you," Fíli replies stiffly, "I can give you my word on that. But we lost the path in the darkness, and so for weeks now we have wandered the woods, and we have lost too all our food, and our water, and many of the weapons we carried as protection. Please—" the suppliant word is bitter as blood upon his tongue, but he cannot keep his eyes from going to Kíli's drooping head and he cannot help himself—"Please, give us of your mercy provisions and passage to the edge of your land and I swear we shall not return to trouble you again. We are no danger to you, and we mean you no ill, and some of us are sick. We have not so much as had anything to eat for days."

" _Starving,_ were you?" the Elvenking sneers.

Fíli stares as though he has been struck a blow, and he feels then his rage flare up white-hot in response, as it all flashes before him again in his mind: Kíli poisoned and ill and vomiting up nothing, Kíli too weak to stand but still running because Fíli begged him to, Kíli panicked and disoriented as the Elves bound his wasted wrists and dragged him away, Kíli, Kíli, _Kíli._

"Yes," he snarls, shaking back his filthy hair. "Starving, and weary, and poisoned, and nearly slain. What sort of king are you, that you could sit and feast and sing while there are such horrors done in your lands?"

The king's face tightens at that, all mockery gone from his voice when he replies, very softly:

"Speak not of what you do not understand, Dwarf."

"I think I understand perfectly," Fíli shoots back, which is exactly the sort of petulant thing a child would say. "You stood by and watched when the dragon laid waste to our own kingdom; yet I should feel not so angered by that now that I know it is your custom to make merry while your own land too is taken by darkness."

The Elvenking leaps to his feet at that, and now it is his own face flushed with fury, his eyes as bright and deadly as swords. The guards around them tense, hands going to their hips, but the king makes no motion to them and gives no command. The sound of his breathing is harsh and quick with anger, and his fingers whiten around his staff.

But then he collects himself, and turning to the captain of his guard he waves one long hand in dismissal.

"Take these _Dwarves,_ " he says, spitting the word like a slur. "If they will not talk, then I have no more use for them here. Take them to the cells and keep them isolated. They will be fed, and given to drink, but there will be no communication between the cells, not before they give me the answers I seek. And once they do talk, then we shall escort them to the borders of the forest where, upon pain of death, they shall never return. I trust these terms will not be declined by our guests, as they are what their little lordling has requested himself." The mockery is back, and the amusement too, though cold.

"You have no right to keep us prisoner," Balin protests, his normally genial voice strident with outrage. He steps forward to stand to the side and a little in front of Fíli, as though to shield him.

"What crime have we committed, that you can treat us thusly? What have we done, O king? Is it a crime to be lost in the forest, to be hungry and thirsty—to be trapped by spiders? Are the spiders your tame beasts or your pets, if killing them makes you angry? We have done you no harm and mean you none. Some of us are ill, and some are injured. To lock them away—"

"Hush, Dwarf," the Elvenking interrupts coldly. "It is a crime enough to wander in my realm without leave. And crime, too, to trouble my people at their merrymaking and to rouse the spiders with your riot and clamour. Ill or hale, the sentence is the same. And I speak not to you, old one, but to your _leader_ —" that last said with a gently mocking smile "—who, I think, will not dispute that my judgement is fair. What say you, little lordling?"

Fíli swallows hard. His hands are shaking again, this time not with fear but with helpless anger. He knows he has no power here. He knows that he has lost. And Kíli—he might never see his brother again.

_Foolishness,_ he thinks bitterly, _foolishness and prideful anger, and now see what you have done. See what your fine words have goaded him to do._

"You are king here, and so may do as you will," is what he replies at last, quietly, the words burning out of him as though they blazed too hotly to bear any longer beneath his skin. "But I too am a ruler of my people, in my own place. I can do nothing to stop you here, but I swear that there will come a reckoning, no matter what befalls, good or evil. And if you will not be kind to him for that sake, at least do not be cruel. I will remember it. I will-" he falters to a stop and bows his head.

The Elvenking's voice has not changed when he hears it next, no kinder or gentler.

"Take them away," he says.

 

Not even Dwalin protests when he is led from the hall and down to the cells, because he knows as they all know that any further struggle would be humiliatingly useless. Fíli tries to reach his brother's side, but before he can manage to get close enough the guard at his elbow stays him with a hand upon his shoulder, and he turns to the left to see a heavy door set in the wall. It is reinforced with steel, and there is a small, barred window set towards the top, though of course the sill is set far above Fíli's eyes.

He stares at the door, cold, numbing despair settling in his throat, and then as the guard steps forward to unlock it he wheels wildly around to see that Kíli is still being led further down a stairwell at the end of the corridor—is already nearly gone from sight.

Fíli opens his mouth to call to him, but he _can't_ , he can't give them Kíli's name too. He nearly runs after him, but he cannot let the guard see any more proof of kinship, anything else they could use against him. He knows Kíli is frightened, but his brother makes not a single sound of begging or protest. Only at the very end of the corridor does he glance back to Fíli, his eyes searching, wide and childlike in his haggard face. Fíli knows he wants reassurance, but he has none to give and so he just stands motionless and silent and watches his brother disappear and it is a pain like he has never felt before in his life. That is the last thing Fíli sees: the torchlight in his brother's eyes, and on his brother's hair, and then nothing. Nothing at all. He stands in the stone hallway like a lost dog at heel, and the key turns in the lock and the door of his prison cell groans open to receive him.

He does not fight when the guard takes him by the arm and shoves him, not too ungently, into the tiny room beyond the door. It is a barren cell, unfurnished and dry, and very cold.

The guard lingers a moment in the doorway, watching him.

"A bed will be brought for you," the guard says. "And blankets, so you will not be troubled unduly by the cold."

He pauses as though expecting Fíli to answer him, but Fíli does not so much as look at him. After a moment the Elf steps back and closes the door firmly, plunging the cell into darkness.

The bolt on the door slides shut, and then Fíli hears the rattle of keys on a ring as the guard finds the correct one for his prison and turns it in the lock. Afterwards, he listens to the guard's footsteps, elven-soft and almost noiseless, fade away down the corridor into true silence.

He is alone, for the first time in his life.

He is alone, and imprisoned, and Thorin is dead, and Kíli's eyes were awful, desperate and scared and brave, brave, brave, and he hadn't even been able to say goodbye.

Fíli slides down to sit against the back wall of his cell, the rough stone digging into his spine. He listens to the hollow silence pressing in upon him until he is certain that the guard has truly gone, and then he presses his hands against his eyes and cries.


End file.
